


The Sounding Joy

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Series: Joy [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Amazing best friend Betty, Amazing big brother Juggie, Christmas, Fluff, Hurt Jughead Jones, Hurt/Comfort, terrible parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 14:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12060963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: How Jughead saved Christmas.





	The Sounding Joy

Jughead’s awakened by a very determined JellyBean, who sits on the center of his chest. “Aurgh,” he complains. “WhachadoinJellyBug.”

“Christmas,” she announces. “And I am ready.”

He flickers in and out of sleep until JellyBean heaves a deep, put-upon sigh. She rolls off the bed, a loud bump followed by the smaller plops of her bare feet on the linoleum floor, and oh yeah, she’s right. It’s Christmas.

The covers do their best to hold him back before he manages to catch his sister’s round fist in his. “I’m awake,” Jughead says. “Ready to go and open presents?”

Jellybean nods about fifty times. Hand in hand, the two sneak out of the room and into the tiny hallway. Their parents’ room is closed, and Jughead pokes his thumb at the scarred door. “Shh,” he warns.

Instantly his sister breaks into smothered giggles. She presses both hands over her mouth and nose, eyes squinched with forbidden glee. Jughead can’t help sniggering at her, all skinny elbows and Scooby-Doo pajamas. Snuffling, they tiptoe to the tiny den in the front of the trailer.

There they stop.

The fake tree Gladys put up has lurched to one side like a drunken sailor. Cans litter the coffee table and sofa, where an unknown man sleeps with his hairy stomach visible between leather vest and jeans.

Under the tree, someone has built a pyramid from more beer cans. There are no presents.

Jellybean deflates. “Was I bad?” she whispers. “I was probably bad.”

A fierce anger licks the back of Jughead’s throat. He wants to drive his fist into the nose of the guy asleep in the trailer, but what good would it do? His ten-year-old self puzzles out exactly what has happened: FP came home drunk on Christmas Eve, and Gladys left.

Both have forgotten what day it is.

“Hey.” Jughead puts his arm around Jellybean. “You’re not bad. We just woke up too early. Let’s go back to bed, and when we wake up again it’ll be Christmas.”

Her eyes fix on his. “Who is that man?”

“Santa’s scout,” he lies. “We better scoot before he catches us. Come on.”

“But what if I can’t go back to sleep?” Although she’s on the verge of tears, Jellybean trots beside him to the bedroom.

“You will. I’ll – I’ll read you a story, and if you close your eyes you’ll be asleep before you know it.”

#

It actually takes three stories and a backrub. Jellybean’s eyes finally close, and Jughead waits until he’s certain his sister is asleep.

First order of business: get rid of the drunk on the couch. Jughead gets the old rotary phone, drags it over to the coffee table, and dial a 9 and a 1. Then he pokes the man.

Needless to say, the stranger isn’t pleased to be woken so early and begins to bluster. He says he’s going to smack Jughead into next week.

“I’m calling the cops,” Jughead informs the guy. “They won’t like being woken up on Christmas either.”

“Christmas!” The man stares before groaning and lurching to his feet. “Shee-it. The old lady will…” He falls against the door opens it, and turns to give Jughead the finger. “Fuck you, kid. Hope you have a shitty Christmas.”

The door bangs. A few minutes later, there’s a roar of a motorcycle revving up outside.

Jughead runs to the bedroom, praying that their mom has bought some presents and they aren’t hard to find. He ignores FP, also asleep and snoring on the bed. Clothes in all the drawers, newspapers under the bed. Bottles and more cans in the closet.

Desperately, Jughead feels in the pockets of shirts and jackets for money. He’ll wrap up cash if he has to for Jelly, using newspaper and duct tape, but all he finds is half a roll of fruit Lifesavers.

His eyes burn. His chest hurts. All over Riverdale, kids are waking up to piles of presents. There are plates of cookies, mugs of hot chocolate. Archie’s unwrapping the new sled he’s been obsessing over. Betty must be sitting down to breakfast with her family, probably being handed pancakes or waffles. There are stockings over the fireplace, and grandparents will stop by later with more presents.

A rusty sob escapes his chest. He can’t face Jellybean’s disappointment - he simply can’t.

That’s when he finds a plastic shopping bag at the back of the closet. It’s filled with an off-brand Barbie doll, a cassette JB wants, two candy canes, silly socks, and a cheap potato gun. There are also a few books Jughead is certain are meant for him, but he ignores them.

Luckily, Gladys has also bought a square of wrapping paper and some tape.

Bag in hand, Jughead sneaks out of the room and dashes to the kitchenette. Miraculously, the scissors are in the old jar Gladys uses for pencils.

Hands shaking, he wraps the gifts for Jellybean and writes From Santa Claus on the sides. The little pile goes under the tree, and Jughead collapses on the floor.

#

“What are you going to call her?”

Jellybean has her cassette in one tight fist and generic Barbie in the other. “Mayonnaise?” she suggests.

Jughead nods. “Mayonnaise is a beautiful name. Are we going to listen to your tape? Try out your potato gun?”

She shakes her head violently. “Just going to look at them today.”

“Good plan.” Jughead gets up and switches on the old black-and-white television to find some carols before he hunts for breakfast.

There’s no milk. There’s no cereal. A empty bag of Christmas cookies lies on its side, spilling crumbs onto the shelf.

“Phone,” Jellybean announces. A second later, the telephone rings.

Jughead trudges over and frowns. Although the Bean’s ability to predict things is freaky, she seems to take it in stride. Her heads tilts in conentration as she twirls Mayonnaise by the doll’s long hair.

“Hello?” he says into the cracked receiver.

“Juggie? Merry Christmas!” Betty bubbles. “Guess what. Archie got a sled for Christmas.”

“Good for him. He kept talking about it.”

“And he’s invited us to go sledding today. The hill behind the school. Can you come for a few hours?”

#

The snow is packed perfectly for sledding. Trim in her powder-blue snowsuit, Betty takes JellyBean for the first run.

At the top of the hill, the two boys blow on their gloved hands for warmth. Archie shoves Jughead and says, “Guess what?”

“What?”

“Cheryl called me yesterday. Dude, Cheryl Blossom. I think she wants to hang out.”

“With us?” Jughead is appalled.

“No!” Archie shakes snow off his head. “With me. Maybe one day during the vacation.”

Jughead shields his eyes and stares downhill. Betty has Jellybean on her back and tows the sled behind them, laughing at something the kid says. Archie, he decides, is a bit of an idiot. “Why don’t you just hang out with me and Betty? We’re more fun than drippy old Cheryl.”

“Oh yeah, of course I'll spend time with you guys! That's why I wanted my sled! But maybe I can use some of my Christmas money to take her to the movies.” As Betty gets closer, Archie lowers his voice confidingly. “I might even get to first base.”

“First base! Ew.” Jughead’s argument about why Archie’s idea sucks is broken off when JellyBean runs up and yanks his arm.

“Hungry,” she announces.

“Whacha have for breakfast, Bean?” Archie asks. Flawed as Jughead’s best friend is, he’s always kind to the little girl.

“Candy cane.”

“With your pancakes?” Betty asks. “Mm, candy and pancakes.”

“Nope.” Jelly shakes her head vigorously. “Just candycane.”

Jughead feels his face grow beet red, and he mutters something about how it’s getting late and having to go home. Archie, naturally, makes it worse. “Gosh! Didn’t your mom make you eat before you came out to play in the snow? Mine always shovels oatmeal into me until it comes out of my ears.”

“Gladys wasn’t home,” JellyBean says with 4-year-old honesty.

Betty breaks the awkward moment by picking up her backpack. “Well! Okay! Lucky for us I brought snacks.”

#

Her version of ‘snacks’ are huge sandwiches, chips, apples, and a bag of home-made cookies. JellyBean sits on a bench and eats half a sandwich, chirping intermittently about how Santa arrived late and how some meanie ate all their cookies.

Archie appears to finally get the message hammered through all three inches of his skull. “I bet – I bet Rudolph was hungry! Yup, I bet that greedy reindeer was the one who ate all your cookies. You’re lucky, Bean – I wish Rudolph ate _my_ cookies.”

Jughead manages to stop eating. Half a candycane, after all, isn’t a very filling breakfast – and plus, these are Betty sandwiches. It means leftover turkey and stuffing and frills of lettuce. “Toldja, Jelly,” he adds. “Toldja Santa was there.”

“Yes he was. His elf was drunk on our sofa.”

With a sigh, Archie stands up. “I hate to take my sled and run, but we have dinner in a few hours and my dad wants me to come home soon. Let’s do this again before school starts, though.”

He gives Betty a quick hug and leaves, his resplendent new sled crimping the snow behind him. Jughead, wiping apple off JellyBean’s mouth, doesn’t miss the flash of happiness in Betty’s eyes at Archie’s careless embrace. “We should go too,” he says. “You probably have great-aunts or cousins at your house.”

“Great aunts?” Betty laughs up at him. The blue of her hood makes her eyes light as water, so pure he can nearly see into her thoughts. “No great aunts. I do have to head back, though.”

“No.” JellyBean winds a rope-like arm around Betty’s knees. “No no no.”

Jughead breaks for his sister’s inevitable breakdown brought on by exhaustion and excitement, but Betty kneels down and feels in her backpack to withdraw a present. “I brought gifts,” she says. “They’re nothing wonderful, just homemade junk.”

“I don’t have anything for you,” Jughead blurts like the dope he is.

It’s too late. JellyBean has already torn off the paper and shouts when she sees an old shoebox,‘Stable’ written on the outside in careful letters. The lid reveals a host of cardboard horses and cut-out riders, as well as tiny saddles and bales of hay made from folded construction paper. “Yay!” she yells. “Yay!”

“Aren’t you going to open yours?” Betty nudges Jughead’s elbow with hers. “It took me weeks to make, but you don’t have to wear it.”

He folds back crinkly tissue paper. It’s a soft, knitted hat, done in gray wool.

“I made you a crown,” Betty laughs. “Because you’re such a king.”

Jughead pulls the hat onto his head. For once in his life, he can’t think of a single sardonic comment.

“Gladys,” JellyBean declares to no one.

“Oh, shoot.” Jughead reaches for JB’s hand. “We have to go.”

Betty pretends to wipe away tears. “Nooooo! Hey, call me tomorrow? I’ve got four tons of cookies at my house.”

“Four tons? I’ll definitely call you.” Jughead grins and, when she presses a quick kiss on his cheek, ducks away as though it’s the worst thing in the world.

But he turns to wave to Betty one last time, watching her walk into the winter sunlight. She’s a blue and gold silhouette against the afternoon sky.

“Jughead.” JellyBean tugs his hand impatiently. “I am telling you an importance.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not calling my doll Mayonnaise any longer. No, I am not.”

“No?” Jughead forces his attention onto his sister’s crumb-smeared face. “Mayonnaise was a great name. What are you going to call her now?”

“Mayonnaise was a stupid name. Only children call their toys Mayonnaise. Now that I’m older,” the Bean adds with a flourish, “I’m calling her Betty.”


End file.
